


Still Beating

by Indybaggins



Series: Flesh and Blood [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Desire, Drug Addict Sherlock, Incest, Lust, M/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Skin Hunger, Sleeping Together, Vampire Mycroft, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: He is that monster, now. These are his fantasies.





	1. (Mycroft)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> For Anarfea, who won me at the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and requested this sequel. Apologies for taking such a long time! 
> 
> Beta and Brit-Picking was by Jie_Jie, thank you <3

 

 

Bright streaks of light fall into the room and outline Sherlock’s sleeping shape. The air is heavy with the scent of old blood. It has dried into dark, rusty smudges on the sheets, and if he could see Sherlock’s neck, Mycroft is certain he would see dark bruises blooming there. 

Sherlock is breathing evenly into the pillows. His body tends to shut down after being fed on, and after spilling his seed onto these sheets - along with the copper scent of blood blanketing the room, the dark, meaty haze of sex is still lingering. 

_Sin_. 

Is there any other name for what they do in the night? 

Mycroft would prefer to dilute the word, to consider need and its consequences and to see himself as _afflicted_ , but he cannot afford such luxury. He is excruciatingly aware of the severity of his actions. Sherlock is an accomplice in this, yes, but he is also the prey. Mycroft inflicts this upon him, week after week. 

Sherlock makes a small sound in his sleep, and he moves deeper into the pillows. Along with the sound, Mycroft’s heart twists. _The pain I bring him._

Mycroft can smell him like this - Sherlock. The old sweat on his body. The dried ejaculate on his upper leg and in his pubic hair. Traces of cigarette smoke, still lingering in his hair and on his skin. The subtle haze of the tube and London. The sour breaths he breathes onto the pillow, along with the stale scent of unwashed alleys and poverty that does not belong on Sherlock but yet it seems to follow him.

Mycroft can hear the secure thudding of his heart. 

Sherlock’s leg twitches, and the movement causes Mycroft’s eyes to linger on Sherlock’s bare foot. Even now, he wants to place his teeth there. He wants to pierce the skin and make Sherlock bleed. 

He is that monster, now. These are his fantasies. 

Mycroft wants to trace his teeth over Sherlock’s skin like this. He desires to leave dual red lines over Sherlock’s lower back, then linger by every nub of Sherlock’s spine and attempt to fit his teeth around them. Mycroft can nearly _taste_ the sweaty hollow beneath Sherlock’s knee – he wants to lap his tongue there. 

He wants to redden Sherlock’s skin with lingering bites, lower and lower, then greedily suck the flesh of Sherlock’s arse into his mouth and prod the luscious curve with his tongue. He wants to run his nails over Sherlock’s back, break the skin, and lick away the trails of blood. Mycroft wants to search for the throb of the femoral artery in Sherlock’s groin, pierce the thin and sensitive skin with his teeth, and feed there like a lover. 

Mycroft tears his gaze away, but it is too late. The deep, pleasant ache in his jaw heralds the rise of his teeth. 

This is the bittersweet pain of the morning after. He only fed last night, so he cannot touch Sherlock now, even though Mycroft is pulsing with life, flush with blood, full of heat and strength and desire.

He can no longer remember with any accuracy who he was, before this. 

Mycroft frequently attempts to grasp the perfectly just and caring feelings he had for Sherlock when they were only brothers, but it is like trying to grasp smoke. Becoming this exposed a vital flaw within himself - some kind of unequivocal egocentric desire that Mycroft despises from the depths of his mind. But there is no alternative left. No one else to be, but this. No better torture than these very mornings, where he can feel Sherlock close and quietly linger in every sexual and bloody fantasy his mind has ever deigned to conjure. 

Mycroft finds himself staring at Sherlock’s neck in sheer rapture. Mycroft aches to lick Sherlock’s salty skin. He can nearly _feel_ Sherlock’s curls brush his lips. Mycroft would kiss the wound that is still there on Sherlock’s neck and taste the dried blood in shades of copper. He would worry it with his tongue, lick the dried scabs until they loosen, suck and lick until Sherlock is a live wire underneath him again, shaking with desire. 

Until Sherlock _begs_ him to bite. 

Mycroft can still taste the lingering tang of blood in his mouth. 

As well as feel the heavy swell of his cock that accompanies every morning like this. It’s the blood - _Sherlock’s_ blood - pulsing and surging inside of him like a great sea. 

But Sherlock is only here for the sensation of being fed on. And Mycroft is here to feed. That is all. 

It does not stop his treacherous mind from offering him image after image – he wants to open Sherlock’s legs. Mycroft wants to _experience_ him, press his nose into Sherlock’s pubic hair and between Sherlock’s arse cheeks to smell the sweet earthiness of him. Mycroft imagines tasting Sherlock’s ejaculate. Surrounding himself with the deepest essence and scent he can find within Sherlock’s body. 

Mycroft’s nipples are so sensitive that a small movement of his own hand over one makes his erection twitch sharply. His body is no longer lingering in the heaviness of sleep, his heartbeat throbs within him like a drum. It is urging him on. 

He wants to rut over Sherlock. To claim Sherlock’s sleeping self as his own, his every desire and need made flesh. Mycroft longs to mark him beyond the large, sprawling bruises on his neck. 

He does not. 

Mycroft slides out of bed. His bare feet touch the cold and smooth wooden floor, and he can feel the grain of the wood. The drag of the sheets over his heated body causes him to shiver wildly. His cock determinedly stands up before him. His body is pulsing with the need for release, and in truth, he would love to simply close a hand over his erection and pull himself into ecstasy while looking at Sherlock’s sleeping form. But he refuses to sink to that level.

He slips into a cool, silk dressing gown that slides and flutters over his skin. He leaves the room and walks through the hall at a hurried pace, to the bathroom, then locks the door with a heavy turn of the key. 

Mycroft is aware of every breath rushing through his lungs. Every part of his body, every patch of skin, every _hair_ feels exposed. 

He places an arm across the painted wood of the door, leans his heated forehead on it, and wraps his other hand around his cock. He turns his mouth to his arm, and his pointed teeth catch the skin there. He bites down quickly. The pain is a bright spark of life within him, and as the blood sluggishly rises, Mycroft tightens his grip on his erection. He forces himself to wait while the blood rolls in slow rivulets down his wrist. 

When he gives in, it is brutal. He growls, then desperately licks the wound and sucks it. Mycroft can feel the blood spread under his lips and smear onto his face. He runs his hand furiously over his aching cock. He imagines tasting Sherlock. The warm sluggishness of this becomes the spray of Sherlock’s arterial blood, and he imagines filling himself with it, sucking and gulping down thick swallows of hot blood. 

His body convulses, and he comes in waves of absolute pleasure. He streaks the door with ejaculate.

The scent is heavy in the bathroom air, and Mycroft shudders. 

His heart is beating in his throat. 

Mycroft breathes a few calming breaths, then cleans the door with a cloth and steps into the shower. It is not over. When the rush of water hits his shoulders, cascades over his back and chest, then runs down his legs in hot streams, it makes him want to _scream_. His orgasm still lives beneath his skin, and so does his hunger and desire. The rush of the shower is as punishing as it is pleasurable. 

He runs his bloodied arm under the water, turns up the temperature, and hopes for a moment of relief in this endless torture.

It never stops.

Mycroft steps out of the shower in clouds of steam, ignores the fogged up mirror, and dries his body. Every scrub of the silk towel grinds as rough as sand over his overly sensitised skin. 

He ventures outside and dresses. Mycroft lays out piece after piece of clothing, then forces himself to face the task of wearing them. Where he used to dress himself without much thought besides a faint appreciation for the ritual of it, dressing now is maddeningly distracting. The thin layers of cloth drag over his skin. Every ridge and every edge is a striking punishment. The heavier fabric of his trousers feels harsh on his legs. His thin undershirt seems to be flirting with the sensitive skin of his stomach and chest. Mycroft buttons his shirt, and he already wants to succumb to the temptation to go check on Sherlock again. Simply to smell him would be enough. 

He does not.

Mycroft walks down the stairs and attempts to collect his mind. He cannot leave the house, not with the sweet cadence of Sherlock’s presence so nearby. He could never walk away from this. 

He sits in his library and pretends that he can focus on work. 

Sherlock walks down the stairs only after nine in the morning, and Mycroft can smell the mix of dried blood, sweat, and sex on him before anything else registers. Sherlock didn’t even shower. Mycroft is not certain whether it is a ploy to make him wild with lust or simply Sherlock’s carelessness, but it thrums through his body. _Come here, Sherlock. Let me. I would worship you._ Mycroft grips the desk and says, pleasantly he hopes, “Good morning.”

Sherlock stands by the door and looks him over. Is he feeling the same desperation? Or is it simply Mycroft’s own desire reflected in him? Mycroft tries to appear distant as he says, “Any plans for the day?”

Sherlock blinks and seems to reconnect with himself. “Going past Scotland Yard to see if there’s anything interesting.”

Mycroft nods. “Ah yes, a nice _murder_.” Sherlock seems unwilling to leave, so Mycroft tells him, “I am rather busy, so if you don’t mind…” 

Sherlock’s eyes briefly linger on his, before he turns away without another word. 

Mycroft digs his fingers deeper into the wood of his desk and says, mainly to himself, “Do take care, Sherlock.” 

He does not breathe easily until the front door slams shut.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Sherlock)

 

 

As spectacular of a rush as being fed upon is, the feeling dissipates quickly, and Sherlock wakes up alone. 

He feels empty afterwards. Drained, in more than one way. So he returns home by way of his favourite drug den. 

Shooting up right after losing that much blood is a somewhat precarious endeavour, but he never stopped. Not completely. In the beginning being fed on was entertaining enough, but in the last month, Sherlock has gone back to the sweet hum of heroin. Or cocaine, if he needs to stay awake. 

Sherlock shoots up into his jugular vein, by the dried blood and bruises he conveniently already sports there, and lingers in the dreams and hallucinations. Then he wanders home, still high, his clothes sticking to his skin with dried blood. He doubles up in bed and tries to forget the constant loneliness singing under his skin. 

He wants to be touched. His entire body aches to be wrapped into an endless embrace, and there is nothing like chemicals to achieve such an effect. People never do, after all. And Sherlock has no desire whatsoever to go find someone who would, which is probably for the best, considering that if he did, Mycroft might rip out their throats. Or he would want to, anyway. 

He likely wouldn’t. Mycroft is still disappointingly principled. Irritatingly _cautious_. Sherlock wants to be drained of enough blood to linger on the edge of death. He wants to see that calculated restraint in Mycroft’s eyes give way to something real, something unhinged. Sherlock has seen glimpses of it. When he undresses, the pure hunger in Mycroft’s gaze sometimes gives him chills. Sherlock has always had a death wish, but this is different. He wants to be taken apart, to be seen, and then devoured. He wants to be held down and have Mycroft _take_ it from him. 

But Mycroft turns his eyes away. He apologises, and he leaves, time and time again. He is _useless_. 

Sherlock samples various drugs until there is another case to fill his mind with. Sometimes he is lucky and there is something complicated enough to hold his interest for the rest of the week. More often, there is not, and he is reduced to waiting and lingering around until the next Friday. 

He eats. He tries to eat fruit and to take iron supplements, but that usually gives way to whole packets of ginger nuts and newspaper-wrapped chips. He stuffs them into his mouth, continuing well after he is full, trying to reach some sense of being so sated he is whole. 

After he ends up throwing up - the bile a harsh reminder in his throat - Sherlock tries to limit himself to food only every other day. If he cannot feel sated, then he can feel hunger. He can feel it rumble and gnaw behind his ribs. 

By Friday, the bite marks have partially healed, although they are healing slower and slower these days. Mycroft switches sides every week, but even then the dark bruises do not fade entirely. Sherlock always thought his veins would collapse sooner or later, so this is no different. His body is a map of access points, only skin to be breached. 

He wants to feel full.

Sherlock buys a bottle of lubricant with that idea, because the greatest rush one could experience isn’t the greatest when he isn’t being taken. Mycroft won’t agree, most likely. But whatever power Mycroft has, Sherlock has more, because Mycroft will always need him now. 

Sherlock imagines Mycroft desperately sucking to get the last few drops, if he ever were to run dry. He still manages to feel shock at how much blood comes out of him at times, how it seems to just flow and flow. It feels good to be used for something, but it always angers him as well. He needs _more_ to make the constant whining of reality go away, to fill up the achingly empty spaces, the misery and anger and sheer banality of life. 

Every single week, Sherlock despises himself for being punctual. He should just not show up. He should turn his back on this and teach Mycroft a lesson about what it feels like to be left behind. But he never actually does so. On Fridays, he is living on the edge of being fulfilled, so near to it he can taste it. 

Sherlock types in his code, and the electronic system opens. He could crack it, most likely. He could find people to teach him how. He could embarrass Mycroft by it, he could… Sherlock walks in, to the library. Mycroft is always waiting there, as if it’s a play that they’ve unwittingly started rehearsing months ago, but yet they never quite agreed on what the grand finale ought to be. 

Mycroft’s teeth appear between his lips in a near-instant betrayal of his hunger. It happens as soon as Sherlock moves into his space, these days. A conditioned response to his smell, or maybe simply desire, Sherlock does not know. 

He already feels lightheaded. 

They go upstairs together. It was Sherlock’s request, once, to sleep here. After the first time Mycroft fed on him in his bed, they never went back. Sherlock opens his shirt, button by button, and meets Mycroft’s gaze. His eyes are dark. 

Sherlock smiles. “Hungry?” 

Mycroft says, uneasy around his teeth, “You are aware that you do not need to do this.” 

He says that every single time. As if his continued regret makes any difference. It’s just something he likes to tell himself, Sherlock assumes. It’s not like feeding is optional - Mycroft survives because of this and only this. Increasingly, Sherlock feels the same. If he didn’t have this, he would have purposely overdosed already. 

Sherlock steps out of his trousers and lowers his pants over his hips. He glances at Mycroft, and then collects the bottle of lube from his coat pocket. He puts it on the bed. 

Mycroft looks up at him sharply, and Sherlock feels the urge to roll his eyes at there being any question about this at all. 

“You wish for me…” Mycroft swallows, then carefully shapes the damning words around his teeth. “...to penetrate you?” 

Sherlock can feel impatience thud though him. He wishes Mycroft could simply see this as a request and get on with it. This is why shooting up is easier. At least then, he can hurry it up when he really needs it. Sherlock gets on the bed, lies down on his stomach, and spreads his legs. “Clearly.”

Mycroft’s inhale is audible, and Sherlock can feel a mild thrill at it. Oh, he’s shocked all right, probably by how much he can’t wait to do this, to take him the way it’s meant to be. 

Mycroft kneels on the bed. He hesitates, caught in an internal dilemma of some sort that Sherlock has no patience for. Mycroft asks, laboriously, “You truly want this?” 

He doesn’t, exactly. It’s a means to an end. But Mycroft sounds as if he is already giving in to the inevitable, so, _good_. “Yes.” 

Mycroft’s hand reaches out to touch Sherlock’s lower back. And after a couple more seconds - so slow, why is _everything_ so slow - Mycroft’s fingers appear between his arse cheeks. 

Sherlock stills his breath. Mycroft runs a small circle around Sherlock’s anal muscle. He dips in only slowly, then returns. He presses one finger in, deeper and deeper. Sherlock feels on edge, ready to have it over with, but also strangely resistant to the feeling. 

He glances back at Mycroft. 

Mycroft looks _painfully_ restrained. He’s not hard, though, he can’t. Not without feeding. He couldn’t take him right now even if he wanted to. 

Mycroft is still touching Sherlock’s lower back with his other hand as well. The pressure feels grounding in combination with Mycroft’s fingers pushing inside of him. Sherlock, despite himself, wants it there. His erection starts to grow persistently. Mycroft adds another finger, and Sherlock feels bursts of desire, lying here.

Sherlock’s heart seems to beat faster, and his cock is twitching all by itself. He could come like this, with Mycroft’s long fingers pressing inside of him. He looks back. “Feed.” 

Sherlock tilts his head so Mycroft can see his neck and the mottled veins there. 

It works. Mycroft moves quickly, and his teeth scrape the skin on Sherlock’s neck. The feeling leaves a rush of goose bumps in its wake. 

Mycroft can locate the vein on instinct now. Sherlock takes a breath, and Mycroft’s teeth pierce him with a grotesque stab of pain. Sherlock always wants to fight the sensation – to throw Mycroft off. But then the sucking starts and, with it, the immediate pull of desire. He groans. 

It rushes through him. His heart is beating as if he is running a race. His mouth is dry. His head pounds, and cold sweat sticks to his back and pearls up on his forehead. He could _die_ , like this. His cock throbs urgently.

Mycroft is sucking, gulping and swallowing noisily, but Sherlock barely hears it over the high whine in his ears. 

Mycroft moves his fingers inside of him. They twitch while he feeds, and Sherlock shudders. Mycroft could kill him. He could suck him dry. Mycroft has his fingers inside of him, continuously playing him and every burst of lust his body is capable of.

Sherlock is unable to keep his face from sinking into the pillow. He can’t breathe like this, but it seems like a mere detail. The heady feeling of Mycroft drinking from him pulls through him with every suck. Colours halo around his vision. Mycroft curls his fingers, and all of Sherlock shakes violently. He gasps for breath. 

He momentarily blacks out, because the next moment Mycroft is licking his neck in large swipes and trying to stop the blood from flowing. 

It’s an open wound, and it hurts. But yet his body pulses urgently. Sherlock tries to focus his eyes, then says, his voice a hoarse whisper into the pillow, “Do it.” 

Mycroft takes a shuddering breath. 

Sherlock is near to rutting himself into oblivion. “ _Now_.” 

Mycroft opens his trousers, frees his cock, then lines himself up and pushes inside of him. It burns, being stretched there. Sherlock is flirting with the edge of consciousness, his neck pulls with drying blood and throbs with pain, and Mycroft is breaching him. It feels impossibly tight. _Stuffed to the brim_. 

Mycroft starts to thrust, and Sherlock can feel himself move around like a limp ragdoll, shifting over the sheets with every thrust. His body feels both heavy, and as if he is floating at once. He wants it to never end.

There is a warm trickle of blood dripping over his neck still, onto the sheets. Sherlock can look down at himself and see the blood splatter over his pale shoulder. He can _smell_ it. Mycroft’s hands have blood on them. 

Rush after rush of bright dizziness floats past his eyes. Sherlock leans up on his elbows in an effort to breathe, and Mycroft helps him up onto his knees, with a strong arm around Sherlock’s stomach. 

Mycroft wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock as well, and Sherlock can feel a scattering of heat at it. Mycroft’s thrusts feel as if they’ll split him in two. There are tears leaking from his eyes. He’s trembling with want. 

Mycroft licks his neck again, shamelessly indulging in the taste of blood while selfishly _fucking_ him. Mycroft’s fingers around his erection are like a fire, pulling feeling out of him. Sherlock’s knees shake wildly. His vision greys out. Mycroft fills him, and he can feel it rise up like a wave. His body spasms, and he comes around Mycroft’s cock. 

Mycroft holds him up and thrusts hard, several times more. Sherlock moves along with it, come still leaking out of him, until Mycroft groans and spills, then lowers him onto the bed. 

He does not pull out. He stays there, stretching him still, his warm weight on Sherlock’s body, his mouth by his neck, idly licking him. 

Sherlock grins, then closes his eyes and allows the dark to take him. 

Always, the dark.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
